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maruzzewrites · 3 years

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Every breath you take. - 9

No one in the house seemed to want to interact much with you, not wanting to acknowledge your presence. You would consider it a victory if your objective didn’t change the course of your actions, aiming to catch their attention for the first time since you stepped into their hell.

Prosciutto, in particular, was cold, detached, but the glares he reserved for you felt like a knife twisting into your flesh as it sunk slowly. You made a show out of hanging your head, turning away, ignoring every little clue to his rage or his contempt. You would close in, raise your shoulder as if to shield yourself, and the tension in your muscles allowed you the benefit of trembling. His eyes didn’t flinch, but the spirit of some of his associates would dull with a note of worry, of almost guilt.

It was all in the nuances, in the hues their icy stares, as you stepped around the house with insecurity more evident. Vulnerable like a deer, wounded like a rabbit, ready to walk into the wolf’s mouth head on: if Prosciutto was about to ask something, you would lean in the direction of Risotto before jolting and averting your eyes with embarrassment; if Illuso would call you over or hint at wanting you closer, you would seek indirect refuge behind Formaggio or Pesci without intruding in their personal space; if Melone would coo sweet words to encourage you during your job, you glanced in Ghiaccio’s direction as if anchoring the possibility of asking for help from someone not fearful.

Like fine strings, tense beyond their capacity, you felt their mood heightening and lowering as if you were a trained director and they, the musicians hoping to be chosen into the orchestra, striving to perform. By the end of the day, your nerves felt as if fried, your muscles vibrating under your skin. Those same strings you could play with ease during the hours in that house, they cut your fingers with bloody disregard. You picked with care the men you chose, those you didn’t want to anger or you didn’t want to lose in this battle.

Their boss, dangerous and looming, didn’t seem the type to be easily fooled by acting, and games, and manipulation. He was sly, yet brusque, like a sharpened knife. His role was of balance, neutral, in your plan. He won’t be swayed or allured in a trap he could foil, but he would be the arbiter of the other men and their hopeful mess. You’d still be cordial, still play in his hands like a frightened doll that gave up control of their limbs, but hoping that the puppeteer would occupy himself with more pressing matters.

It was difficult to pick apart the others, with their deranged personalities. Their pride, their bonds, their lack of empathy; yet, you found in those flaws the path to your victory. Play with the weaknesses that they show, those they have no qualms airing out as if impossible to exploit. Prosciutto never asked Risotto or the others for anything, Illuso was rarely with the others, Melone didn’t seem to benefit from a stronger personality like the others. Would they confront their feelings, would they question each other? Would they confront their fellows, treated with more gentleness?

Pesci and Formaggio seemed and felt warmer with the subtle changes in your behavior towards them, the lack of scares and the less restricted words you would exchange with them – still too little, you could see their silent request for more. Ghiaccio was more wary, more difficult to lure in after months of skittish tip toeing around these men, but with caution you could hint to the possibility of relaxing and accepting. A slow dance around the matter, allowing him to feel the pride when you wore the accessories he got you. Maybe stepping up to ask him where he got them, so that he would delude himself into believing you appreciate his gesture.

However, the play was put together by a crumbling actor. As soon as you were safe, as soon as no one could see, you would feel your persona fall apart all around you. Almost physical, when you abandoned the shirt Formaggio bought you or when you left the hair accessories on the desk to dust for the rest of the week. A single day, and you were shivering from head to toe. Tense, stressed without possibility to release the tightness in your muscles and the ice in your veins.

It would prove a straining effort to keep up the farce, with everything on the stake for you, nothing to lose for the men who tormented you. You almost felt like a joker, in an exhibition for a cruel, vicious, vile king and his court, sweating and struggling with an act too difficult for the psyche of a single person. If you failed, the head rolling would be yours, as the rest of the nobles would feast upon the next meal as if nothing happened and you were a mere stain in the course of their lives. The thought was even more bitter when you considered that an almost victory for you, in any case.

That first day drained your energy, and you found yourself clenching the shirt that was gifted to you without really feeling it between your fingers. It was an alien feeling, soft like a caress, unlike the terror in your chest. You had to wash it, you had to have it ready for the next time you will had to step into that house to face the inevitable game. You were set into your ways, but you had to really steel your resolve after the day. A tea, a walk, a TV show, anything to forget about the hours you spent forgetting yourself for the sake of those men.

Luckily, your darling was there for you. You were fearful of meeting with him, it was probable you were followed as closely as ever despite the intent of soothing some of their worries. His voice, though, was a welcome surprise when you answered your phone after the sudden thrill hurt your ears and bruised your determination. No matter the way you abandoned him, with little to no explanation, he was the kindest soul you ever encountered and he was willing to face the monster behind Naples as if it was nothing. You really hoped it would result in nothing for him.

You walked up and down your room, letting out the energy and the tension, shirt still clutched in your hand. The comforting notes of your beloved’s voice moved your body out of the catatonic trance you found yourself from the moment the car’s door closed and you left that remote house, where no one could run to help. You talked freely, about how his studies were, how your family was doing, how you two intended to spend the approaching vacations. In your worries and in the nightmare that your life became, you forgot the approaching summer and the sensation of smooth, rocky beach under your feet.

It would be the first one without the annual trip, with your fiance, to Amalfi. Climbing its ethereal stairs, the sound of waves never leaving your head, not even when you rested your head on the pillow, laying besides your darling. You remember how you looked for a job, accepted this specific one, to save enough money to book the hotel this time around. Your heart trembled, as your words, but you didn’t hear anything from the other side if not the hue of worry as he continued to talk about mundane things. How bitter, his sweetness.

You wondered if princesses and princes felt the same way as you felt when you ended the phone call, after their happily ever after. A story untold, impossible to know from point of views different from your own; even the loving presence of your former fiance wouldn’t be able to observe the way everything could fall over your shoulders in a matter of seconds. The weight was unbearable when alone, crushing and damaging your muscles with the sheer tension in them. You felt like you were vibrating from inside out.

And if loneliness made you choke on your grief, company should be what you needed. Despite the pleas from your own mind to curl up in your bed and never get up, you stepped outside and faced the world. The first days, you stayed around the house and talked to your mother about anything that could come to mind. She seemed relatively happy to see you well, even if she wasn’t aware of your inner turmoil. Your father would mumble when you bothered him after work, but didn’t turn you away after a veil of sadness fell on his eyes.

You didn’t notice how deeply you affected those around you, how unable to reach out to you they felt. If your parents were reassured to see you speak with them again, no matter how briefly and for dull matters, your friends gathered around you like hawks as soon as you met them at a cafe you used to hang out at often. It was like a cold shower, seeing the little details change from the picture in your memory, the menu and the decorations were new, shining, and you felt the months you lost flashing before your eyes.

It was odd. You didn’t recognize the fearful, isolated person in your memory; you left behind your entire life just to hide in fear of men who decided to strip away what made you someone. They didn’t profess love or devotion, they didn’t declare or swear to protect you and keep you away from harm. Who you were, to them? A doll, a placeholder? The symbol of affection they craved, but easily interchangeable with the next person who could enter their lives with the tiniest amount of human decency?

You found your resolution in that epiphany. You were nothing for them, you weren’t you, you didn’t have a name or a story. They probably knew anything there was to know about your identity, but they lacked the drive to search for the inner world that blossomed inside of you. If they cared about it, they would stomp on the buds as cruelly as they were. It wasn’t about you, it never was; you were all-in, they were merely seeking a shadow of person, someone they could tear apart to avoid their own reflections.

In that moment, when your lips were on the cup of coffee, your plan shifted ever so slightly. You needed to pretend to like them, at least some of them, but you had to show them a personality. Not a robot or a mere plaything, someone with a beating heart and a thinking brain. In the best of cases, they would find a spark of humanity in their souls to spare you the torment of their affection; in the most probable case, they wouldn’t be able to process the shift, they would turn to themselves to cope with the loss of their punching bag.

Who you were, though? You were kind, or so you hoped. Acting bratty or spoiled, rebellious or defiant, would only cause trouble for you. You needed to dig into yourself to be genuine, push them away with a display of fragility and flaws. People who loved you, who really cared, they wouldn’t mind the vulnerability and the complexity of character, but the brutes who cared for you only for their sick, twisted, warped fantasies would care only for the surface and their projection. A doll to dress, toy with, and then toss into the drawer until it was time to play again.

A balancing act like nothing you’ve done before, picking the elements that could really make your own self shine while poisoning them with enough malice and faults that the flowers would look too ugly, unworthy to be picked up by anyone. You wondered what they saw in you, besides a servile proxy of love. Generous or subservient? Perhaps fragile and easy to manipulate? The same trait can be molded and transformed in news masks, so that your staged behavior wouldn’t result unconvincing, fake or suspicious. The last thing you wanted was going from glorified to demonized to those men. No extreme was safe, with them.

You left the meeting with a lighter heart, but a heavier mind. Worries of all kinds buzzed in your head, from the need to stop worrying your loved ones to the need to put up a convincing spectacle to deranged mobsters ready to cut you out of your support system. Or make you walk away, if they could. The job would be cleaner that was, or so you thought. Not their fault if you feared for the well-being of those you cared about, they never touched them and never promised to do so.

The taste of that chain of thoughts disgusted you like no food could, but you schooled your face into a peaceful one for the sake of your mother. She smiled, and talked, and laughed, as if the child she thought lost came back from a long, long journey. You felt yourself breathe in the wake of her joy, no matter how imperceptible it was for someone outside your situation; maybe even to a past you, before all of that happened. If you could thank those men for something, it was your new ability to stop and reflect on the people around you, their motivations and their intentions. You wished you didn’t need to learn that skill.

The following days, before your next performance, were a blur. Meeting old faces, looking for new ones. Maybe the romanticism of movies made you think you could catch a glimpse of long brown hair, or a long coat, an elegant suit, maybe even red glasses and purple leather. You would be listening to you friend, smiling at her story from a few weeks ago, when you were still losing yourself; then your eyes would raise towards the mob of people walking, chatting and yelling, just to see a pair of eyes or a looming figure. It never happened, and it made the fear raise rather than fall.

Like a rat, you were fearful of them discovering you, learning about your plan. You weren’t ready to lose the game before you could even adjust to the rules fully, but you didn’t know how people like them could hide so well despite their quirks. But you had to stomach the unbearable tension until the fateful, almost fatal, day.

As always, the drive was torture. Your brain couldn’t stop working, you felt your heartbeat in your wrists, and your legs were so weak you could barely press the pedals. The shape of the house was, just like any other time, the confirmation of your fears, the last signature to your ticket towards a few hours of personal agony. This time, though, you were seeking out the pain as if you could toughen your skin as iron in the hands of an expert blacksmith.

You took a breath when you parked in front of the building, eyed the closed door, and ventured in the den of famished beasts. You dropped your bag with less apprehension, you greeted Formaggio on your way towards the living room, you cleaned with some pep in your steps. You noticed the attention, from when you ignored your designed victims and got embarrassed by the presence of the calculated favorites.

All fake, incredibly so. There was no mirth in your heart or in your soul, there was no fondness or attachment to the people who couldn’t even consider the horror they brought to your life. When your eyes met theirs, smiling on the outside, you wondered if they thought about it at night. Before sleep, before leaving the night to meet the day, did they contemplate the hurt, the blood, the trail of broken lives they could, would and did leave behind? Maybe they couldn’t see it, maybe they were truly so into their own world they couldn’t understand their actions towards others.

When your gaze was met with firm eyes, like ice and stone, you got your answer. It didn’t matter if they knew the extent of the consequences, it wasn’t relevant if their vision excluded the context and the collaterals, you could see intelligence shine behind those eyes. Bright minds left to rot in the underbelly of your country’s criminal life; you assumed they would be the young boys, with guns in their hands, lighting up the streets of Naples with thunders of bullets. With their sad stories, and the violence of their lives, the absence of money and choices. The blood on their hands, only a TV program in the sea of stimuli, forgotten and putrid. You would only be another spot in that red, and it made your even breath catch in your throat.

After the uneventful morning and their wary surprise, lunch came around and you closed yourself inside the kitchen with the promise of something tasty. It was your escape from the forced prison you were in, and your worked as slowly as possible in order to treasure every single second and recharge your energy to bear with the rest of the day and the rest of your plan. Alas, even with the most sluggish of movements, you finished the chore and the meal was ready, served and ready to be eaten.

You invited them in, you got out. They tried to invite you back, but you gently refused as you threw some glances at the specific men you decided you weren’t fond of. Your pleading eyes were good enough to convince the heart of the one who asked, maybe flattered by the special attention in contrast with his teammates. It was going as you wished, so you turned on your heels to continue with your job.

You halted on the doorstep. You looked over your shoulders, then down the corridor, where the main entrance was. You pretended to be pondering something, and you felt the telltale sensation of eyes fixed on your back like parasites. You swallowed the dread, and called Pesci to come near you. He was startled, that was for sure, but he got up from his chair and stumbled towards your position. You had to suppress the urge to step back to keep your distance.

You walked down the hallway, asking him to follow you, and he walked your steps with tentativeness evident in every movement, in every bend and creak of his legs. At his heels, the gazes of the others came soon after like wolves ready to eat their own, for disloyalty. It was a second before you reached into your bag, opening it in front of the man as if it was nothing, as if you didn’t lock it from this world until two mere weeks ago. You pretended to search for something, but you were aware nothing else was there to impede you grabbing what you were aiming for.

It was in one of the inner pockets, not shifting from its place for the entire ride there and ready to be grabbed as an obedient soldier in this battle. You held it in your hand has you took a deep, yet silent, breath and stoop up for kneeling down on the floor. You looked Pesci in the eyes with resolve, but it waned in a false display of coyness. You noticed the shadows of the others on the door, ready to understand what was going on, and you convinced yourself that you needed to go deeper, dig the grave, and let destiny decide who will lay in it.

“I’m sorry, for that time,” you voiced your intentions, you handed the content of your bag. New make-up, of the same exact shade of the one you used, and an accompanying sponge. Your position wouldn’t allow the others to catch a glimpse of the object you were gifting Pesci, but you hoped that their curiosity would allow them to ask for more information later. But you needed to finish your scene, first of all, “I didn’t intend to… You know. I hope you can accept this as an apology.”

Pesci seemed to awaken from a dream when you moved your hands closer, to show the gift and encourage him to pick it up, and the contact of his fingers with your palm seemed to be electrifying to him. His hands twitched, retracted for imperceptible millimeters, then closed around the make-up. Down the hallway, you saw the shift of the shadows and the turmoil of silence in the other room.

You hoped with all your heart, from the bottom of your soul and of your mind, that it would come to words later on. Or speculations. Some of them putting their noses where it didn’t belong once again, to answer the mystery of the gift, maybe unable to link the full bottle of make-up with it because of their inattention. Or maybe they would know, they would demand the story. And Illuso would have to tell, Pesci would have to feel even more excitement over the treatment, and maybe something would finally fire up among them.

Rivalry? Conflict? Maybe consideration for the status of their team? It didn’t matter if it was pacific or bloody, until the path to liberty could be paved by your actions, it would be enough. Pesci rushed away into the bathroom, the other were stiff and still at the table when you returned. When they finished their dishes, they retreated. You were unbothered for the rest of the day, until the moment to flee.

You were on the door, when you heard a deep voice rumble behind you. It rolled out of Risotto’s voice like boulders, that order to stay still. And you stopped, waiting for him to walk to you as if he had to hurry – but you did, hurry to return to a better place. He was in front of you in seconds that felt like hours, and looked down from his height. He raised a hand, which landed on your shoulder, snaked its way behind your neck to hold it into place as you raised your head. It felt like a collar, and you instinctively raised your shoulders.

He thanked you for looking after his team so, so kindly. You shuttered in your answer, and you saw a glimmer in that red. For the first time, his eyes looked like they had a depth you didn’t consider before, something that spoke to you and your deepest self. Interrogating you, finding an answer, looking for more questions, and you froze before registering his last goodbye.

Without thinking, you nodded and walked out, with too much speed. You closed yourself into the car, but when you looked, the door was closed. No one was at the windows, the curtains weren’t open, and you couldn’t see into the house. You turned on your car and drove away, not too fast so that you wouldn’t seem too eager to get away. When the roof, even the lingering feeling, of the house were nowhere to be seen, you stopped at the edge of the street.

The spot Risotto held between his fingers felt hot, burning still. You needed to relax, to calm down, so you grabbed your phone and dialed your darling’s number. It felt like eternity, in suspension with your thoughts, before the voice of his voicemail arrived, informing you the phone couldn’t be reached.

You looked down at your car’s clock. It was barely late afternoon, maybe he was in class. You let the phone fall onto the passenger’s seat, and continued to drive.

#jjba #JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #Jojo no Kimyou na Bouken #pesci #risotto #yandere #yandere x reader #i post this and disappear again toodles!

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sinsiriuslyemo · 4 years

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Finals week was always the most stressful for everyone, but if you'd asked Jackson Neill, he would swear that the professors had it worse than the students. At least all they needed to worry about was being prepared for the finals, while he and his other colleagues still had to make themselves available after classes and well into the early evening to be sure students had all the help and guidance they needed. Their futures depended on their passing grades, after all. On top of that, they were responsible for ensuring all of the final assignments were graded as well. He genuinely enjoyed his job, but if he had to sit through one more appointment with a female student offering him sexual favors in exchange for a passing grade, he would throw himself off of a bridge. The young ladies in his classes had always been flirtatious with him, even when he was still married, but after his divorce last year it seemed to have gotten ten times worse.

Today it had been just three appointments, only one of which consisted of actual academic discussion. Tomorrow he had five appointments, all with female students and one in particular who had shown no reservation in making her interests known. He sighed heavily as he opened his front door with one hand, loosening his tie with the other and dropped his messenger bag on the floor, keys on the small table beside the door as he walked past the foyer. He vaguely heard the click of the door shutting behind him as he kicked off his shoes.

What he needed most in the world now was a hot shower and some takeout. But first, beer. A cold beer after a particularly grueling day always helped take the edge off.

As he shuffled into his kitchen, he stretched his arms over his head and reached with one hand for the fridge door, pulling it open and sticking his head inside. It was then, in the midst of his search for a cold one, that he heard the muffled music coming from next door. Rolling his eyes as he spotted a Bud Light near the back of the fridge, Jackson peered over the top of the refrigerator door and looked through the window above the sink to his neighbor's window.

He'd never met the woman in the year and a half that he had lived in the neighborhood, but had often seen her moving about her own kitchen, usually baking or cooking. He supposed she must've been a pastry chef of some kind with as much time as she seemed to spend in the kitchen.

At that moment she was using a long, dark wooden spoon to stir something in a mixing bowl, hips swaying to the music. He couldn't hear it very clearly but it sounded like reggae, maybe? Half of her long dreadlocks were tied into a knot at the top of her head while the bottom half reached past her elbows, hiding the majority of her tattooed sleeve. He couldn't make out what she was wearing beneath her apron but saw a brief flash of denim shorts every so often when her dance took on a more pronounced state and a brown spaghetti strap continuously fell off her shoulder, even when she would pull it back to her shoulder.

As she danced out of sight, Jackson took the opportunity to reach back into the fridge--which was now beeping at him to close the damn door--and pulled the lone bottle of beer from the back. He twisted the cap off and tossed it into the garbage, looking up just in time to see the reggae-dancing, bowl-mixing neighbor bopping back into view, her slender arms reaching behind her to take off her apron. His eyes took in her athletic frame and curved hips. Denim shorts indeed; cut-offs to be exact that stopped just a few inches below her ass. Her breasts were modest, he could tell that she was clearly not wearing a bra judging by the fact that he could see the outline of her nipples on the front of her shirt. Had he not been so annoyed with the fact that she almost always had music blaring from her household, he might've noticed how attractive she was before then.

For a moment he stood there, watching her sway her hips along with the muffled melody he could hear coming from her place. Licking his lips, he let his eyes roam her frame one more time before shuffling over to the couch in his living room.

Dating after the divorce had always been somewhat of a struggle for him, not so much in that he couldn't find anyone who was interested, but he because he rarely associated with anyone outside of school. The only exception was the sushi place down the street from the school, where he frequented on especially hard days. Or whenever his children would spend the weekend at his house. Time had been part of the reason he and his wife had separated to begin with--she wanted more it and he had none to spare.

As he sank into the couch, Jackson reached for the small pile of menus on the coffee table, looking over them one at a time to decide what to have for dinner. He'd had pizza last night. Italian was too heavy. Chinese sounded good or Thai, he was quite fond of Thai, especially after a long day. Still, Chinese always reheated better. Deciding on Chinese, he ordered his food, then turned on the TV to wait for it to be delivered.

It had only been about ten minutes into the twenty-five the restaurant had quoted him when a car pulled up out front. Glancing at the white pickup, he took a pull from his beer and set it on the coffee table as he stood and began to walk to the front door. As he opened it and looked out at the person who had gotten out of the truck, he saw one of his male students--sans takeout bag--walking towards his neighbor's house. At first he was slightly embarrassed and stood there awkwardly as the student knocked on the reggae dancer's door.

Of course she would be dating a college student. She had in fact looked to be younger than him, maybe her late twenties, and anyone with tattoos and dreadlocks wouldn't likely be interested in a forty-year-old, divorced college professor with two kids. Not that he would've thought to ever go next door and find out.

Not a moment before he was about to go back inside and resume his wait on the couch for his takeout did the student come back out of the neighbor's house, holding a plastic bag filled with cookies. Furrowing his brows, Jackson took a step onto his porch. "Nick!"

The student turned at the sound of his name, and had it not been for the sudden look of panic in his eyes, Jackson might've simply waved. But that look was one of being caught, a look that Jackson knew all too well, and he began to walk towards the college kid, hands in his pockets.

"Professor Neill...what are you doing here?"

"I live here, what's your excuse?" Jackson quipped, coming to stand at the end of his path on the sidewalk.

"Oh, I was just...visiting a friend," Nick answered, still clutching the bag of cookies.

"Short visit," Jackson said, eyes lowering to the clear, plastic bag. "What's with the cookies?"

Nick instinctively put the bag behind his back, mouth falling open and eyes widening as he, no doubt, tried to come up with an answer. Jackson sighed, holding out a hand.

"Alright, hand them over."

The student's face fell as he hesitated for a moment, echoing Jackson's sigh as he shoved the bag or cookies into the professors hand. "I just use them to relax during finals week, Professor. It's really not that big a deal."

"Not that big a deal, huh?" Jackson repeated as he looked down at the bag, examining it briefly before he brought it up to his nose and sniffed. "Are these pot cookies?"

Nick bit his lip, his eyes trained on the bag in Jackson's hand. "Yeah, but it's medicinal."

"Medicinal? Okay, let me see your card," Jackson challenged.

Nick rolled his eyes and sighed again, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Come on, Professor, you know how stressful finals week is."

"Are you trying to get sympathy from me?" Jackson asked with an arched brow. "Get out of here, Nick."

"What about my stuff?"

"What about it? You're lucky if I don't tell the dean about this," Jackson answered. "Now, go on home."

"Are you kidding?!"

"Nope." He was most certainly far from kidding, especially since he could see the Chinese delivery man in a marked car at the stop sign down the street, no doubt with his long awaited takeout order.

Groaning and rolling his eyes, Nick turned and headed back to his car, pulling out seconds before the delivery man pulled up along the curb and got out the car. After paying for his food, Jackson brought it inside and looked down at the bag of chocolate chip cookies in his hand. Walking back to the front door, he crossed the grass that separated his house from the pot-baker's and climbed the steps to her porch, knocking firmly on the front door. It didn't take long at all for her to answer and Jackson was met with a deep, blue stare.

"Hi?" she said, leaning against the opened door. "Can I help you?"

"Actually, yes. You could stop selling pot to my students to start," he replied, holding up the plastic bag. "And while I have you, I would appreciate it if you wouldn't blast your music loud enough to hear from the next block."

The amused smile on her face as she looked him over made him angry, his growling stomach made him angrier. Holding out the bag to her, he fought to keep his eyes from roaming her figure.

"You stole this from him?" she asked with an arched brow.

"I confiscated it."

"Yeah, that's what I said; you stole them from him. He's over eighteen and also paid for them. You, on the other hand, did not pay for them and therefore you stole them," she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "That's not cool, man."

"I'll tell you what's not cool, man, is me having to listen to that…" He waved his hand wildly in the general direction of her living room. "...noise after a long day dealing with rowdy college kids, half of which seemed to have not paid attention to a word you've said all semester!"

"Sounds like someone had a bad day," she replied, a hint of a smirk playing on her lips.

"Is this funny?"

"Hilarious," she answered. "You sure you don't wanna just keep the cookies? I mean, since you stole them, you probably want to get rid of the evidence." The smirk grew into a full blown grin as she looked him over again, slowly this time. If he wasn't so damn annoyed with her he might've found her smile charming...maybe even cute.

"I don't need your pot cookies." He held them out to her again.

She hummed, tilting her head and clicking her tongue on her teeth. "I'd say that's debatable." Reaching with one hand, she brushed her fingers against his as she took the bag.

Jackson inhaled sharply through his nose, ignoring the shiver that had danced over his arms in response. His eyes, apparently having a mind of their own, looked her over as she had done him, darting back up when he reached her still perfectly outlined nipples beneath her tank top.

She bit her bottom lip. "But I can hang on to your hot cookies for awhile."

"Not all of us are criminals, you know."

"Ooooh...touchy," she whispered, still grinning at him.

Jackson rolled his eyes and turned to leave, walking back to his house. As he reached his front door, he glanced back to find her watching him, that stupid, cute smile still planted on her face. Opening the door to his house, he went back inside and kicked his shoes off. He sat on the couch and opened his takeout, spreading it on the coffee table and taking out the chopsticks that had come with order.

As much as he tried to get the interaction with his neighbor out of his mind, he couldn't help but think about her eyes, two striking spheres outlined in a darker shade that looked like a kaleidoscope of light and medium blues. Her tattooed sleeve, he'd notice ran all the way from her shoulder to the middle of her forearm and included an array of pinks and purples, oranges and reds, contrasting her dark brown dreadlocks, which reached to her waist. He found himself wondering how long it had taken for her to grow them out and what they would feel like wrapped around his fingers.

Wait. What? Wasn't he just annoyed with her not even ten minutes ago? And now he was thinking about her hair between his fingers?

Biting into an eggroll, he focused his attention on the TV, trying to get that adorable smile out of his mind, but it was a losing battle. As irritated as he'd been to have to play responsible professor after hours, he would've done it ten times over if he knew he would get to see that smile up close again. And the way she bit her lip had been the most exquisite thing he'd seen in a very long time. It had made him want to taste those lips, feel them on his skin, see them wrapped around his--

Well that certainly took a turn rather quickly, he thought with a sigh, blinking several times as if attempting to reboot himself.

Taking one last bite from his noodles, he put the lid back on and took it, along with his last remaining eggroll, to the kitchen and set it in the fridge. He was about to go upstairs to shower when he caught a movement from his peripheral vision. Glancing out the window, he saw the woman with the steely blues picking up the kitchen, setting mixing bowls into the sink and wiping the countertops. He swallowed as he watched the muscles in her slender arms flex and relax with her movements. As she bent forward to wipe the back of the counter, he was given a glimpse down the front of her shirt and another shiver fell over him, this time settling in his groin.

He hadn't meant to stare, and when she looked up and met his eyes, his own widened in horror. Moving away from the window, he ran a hand through his hair and headed down the hall to the bathroom for that shower. Looking at his reflection, he idly shook his head at being caught gawking like a pubescent teenager and began to take off his clothes.

He turned on the water and checked the temperature just as a knock sounded at his front door. Jesus Christ, what now?

Was she coming to his door to make fun of him? Or maybe she was coming to tell him off. Either way, at least he would be getting another look at her eyes. He opted for a towel, which he wrapped around his waist as he padded to the front door.

For a moment he stood with one hand on the knob, taking a deep breath and opening it to see the neighbor standing there with that smirk of hers. Her eyes immediately feel to his bare upper half.

"Well, at least I get to see yours," she said, leisurely bringing her eyes back up to his.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare at you," he replied with a smirk of his own, holding up a hand as he shook his head.

"Was it me you were staring at, or was it just that you couldn't get those cookies off your mind and were hoping to see them again?" she teased.

He almost lied and said it was the cookies, but he found himself saying, "No, I was staring at you," in a small voice, eyes taking in her frame again.

He could've sworn he saw a pink hue grace her cheeks and grinned as he licked his lips. "I was just about to take a shower."

She arched a brow, smiling back at him. "The towel kind of gave that away."

"Right," he answered.

"I'm Willow, by the way."

"Jackson," he replied. "Did you wanna come in?"

She seemed surprised at his question. "Are you gonna be in a towel the entire time?"

It was his turn to blush, apparently having forgotten that he was naked and only covered by the terrycloth.

"How about I come back in, like, ten minutes?" she offered as her gaze lowered to his bare skin once more before meeting his eyes again.

"Ten minutes it is," he replied, about to shut the door before he added, "Oh and Willow…"

She looked at him over her shoulder and Jackson took the opportunity to glance at her posterior. Licking his lips, he brought his stare back to hers.

"Bring the cookies."

Ten minutes later, he was pulling on a pair of sweats, deciding to go without underwear and a black, fitted t shirt. Checking himself over in the mirror, he eyed his cologne on the nightstand for a moment, but ultimately settled on just smelling clean. She seemed like the type to point it out if he appeared to try too hard. Going back into the living room, he scanned the area, throwing away any trash and making the place look presentable. He had just finished wiping the traces of Chinese takeout off of the coffee table when he heard a knock at the door and he quickly tossed the used paper towel and went to answer.

She looked just as striking now as she had the first time he’d seen her up close, a playful smirk on her lips as she shook the bag of chocolate chip cookies and stepped inside. Her chest feathered against his as she bit down on her lip. “Since these are technically paid for, I won’t be charging you this time.”

“What makes you think I’ll be a returning customer after tonight?” he asked with a smirk.

“I think once you’ve had a taste of my cookies, you won’t be able to get enough of them,” she purred. The heavy insinuation fell over him like a ton of bricks, causing a tug in his groin.

“I think you’re being pretty presumptuous,” he mumbled.

“Really?” she inquired with an arched brow. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you staring at my ass from your windows.” She looked him over, seeming to undress him with her eyes. “I like you better in the towel.”

He didn’t move away as he closed the door and watched curiously as she took two steps back, pressing her back against the now closed front door. Holding up the bag, she beckoned him close with a crooked finger. Jackson swallowed and closed the space between them as she reached into the bag and pulled out a cookie, holding it to his lips. Opening his mouth, his eyes stayed locked on hers as she tucked the cookie between his lips and watched him chew, reaching into the bag again and taking a cookie for herself.

“We should start to feel these in about forty-five minutes, give or take,” she said. “So while we wait, why don’t I introduce you properly to that noise you love so much.”

“You cannot be serious,” he answered, placing a hand on the door beside her head as he stepped just the slightest bit closer.

“I may be making myself clear, but I’m not an easy lay,” she said, tilting her head up to his. “You’ll still have to work a little for it. Besides...you’ve never fucked until you’ve fucked high on pot.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm,” she replied in a sigh, hand coming to smooth over his chest. “So, why don’t you relax, professor. I hear it’s finals week.” With a smile, she slinked past him, walking to the stereo beside the TV and turning it on. She fumbled with the dials, finding the station she wanted and turning the volume down so that they could easily talk while still being able to hear the music.

“Please, make yourself at home,” he mumbled, watching as she turned in place with a grin.

“Thanks,” she answered, taking a few steps to sit on the couch and kicking her flip flops off. “You got a nice place.” she said, stretching her arms above her head.

“Thank you,” he answered, moving around to sit on the opposite end of the couch. “So, how long have you been a drug dealer?” There was a smirk on his face that came with his light-hearted question.

“I’m not a drug dealer. I’m a personal chef that works with medicinal marijuana. It’s not a terribly lucrative job, but I’m helping people. That makes it worth it.”

“A personal chef, huh?”

She tilted her head, smile still firmly planted on her lips. “Mhm. Why? Tired of take out? You wanna hire me?”

“Not if you’re going to be lacing my food with marijuana,” he replied, earning a giggle from her as she laid her head back on the cushions of the couch.

“I wouldn’t unless you asked me to,” she answered, adding in a whisper, “ Besides, you would need to have a medical card.”

“Nick doesn’t have one,” he challenged with an arched brow.

“I’ve known Nick for a long time. His granddad is a client of mine.”

“Ah, that makes more sense to me,” he answered.

“How long you been a wound up professor?” she teased.

He arched a brow. “I am not wound up.”

“Liar,” she whispered.

He rolled his eyes and grinned as a heavy sigh passed through his lips. “About six years at the university.”

“What do you teach?”

“Comparative Religion.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? Interesting.”

“Is it?”

“Oh sure. I bet you’ve found that most religions focus on the exact same story, they just tell different versions of it,” she answered.

“Not always,” he replied as he began to feel slightly light-headed. “I’m not going to pass out from this cookie, am I?”

“If you weren't so hot, I would take offense to that,” she replied with a smile. “But no, I take my measurements very seriously. This is an indica dominant hybrid. You’ll feel relaxed, but perfectly awake and aware.”

“I suppose I have no choice but to trust you,” he answered as a gentle tingling sensation began to manifest in his head, spreading slowly throughout the rest of his body. “How long have you been...a personal chef?”

“Eight years. I’m a professional,” she replied with a wink. “So what do you think of the music? Doesn’t it make you feel like you’re on an island somewhere, hot sun beaming down on your skin,” she brought her foot up to glide over his knee and up his thigh, “breeze blowing through your hair?”

“The upstate New York weather somehow ruins that illusion,” he answered, eyes on her delicate foot as it traveled further up. The sensations it was creating in that area were somewhat indescribable. It was relaxing and arousing all in the same instance.

“I think you just need to use your imagination,” she whispered.

His eyes came up to meet hers as one hand gently grasped her foot, earning a gasp from her. Jackson licked his lips as his fingers slid over her long, smooth calf. The feel of her skin against his was electrifying and he could already feel himself stirring beneath his cotton sweats. He was hyper aware of her foot, creeping closer to his center and lifted his hips subconsciously against her touch.

“You feeling that cookie yet?” she asked as her eyes slipped closed, apparently enjoying his touch just as much as he was hers. “Touching feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Different. Like the contact is all consuming while still being restrained,” he answered, turning to move closer to her. He licked his lips as she hummed and lifted her leg over and settled it behind him on the couch, leaving a space between them. Her eyes opened, staring into his own as she sat up and reached to grab a fistful of his shirt, pulling him closer. Their faces inches apart, she brushed her nose against his, humming contently at the contact.

Everywhere he touched and was being touched, a tickle danced, not prominent enough to provoke a laugh, but just enough to make him want more. His cock stirred again at the thought of having those tickles along his shaft as one hand went to her waist, their lips pressing together. He hummed against her mouth, leaning forward until he was lying on top of her, hips flush against hers. Tilting his head, he licked against her pout, silently asking for entrance, which she obliged with a smile against his lips.

Her legs wrapped around him, holding him against her center as she rolled against him, stimulating herself and him while her hands drifted over his back. Their tongues did a slow, deliberate dance, teasing the other while hands explored every reachable human surface. The tickle in her pussy burned when she felt him hardening against her, and Willow slipped her hands under his shirt to rake her nails over his skin. He groaned against her pout, moving his lips to her neck and leaving wet kisses over her pulse point, earning a gasp from her.

“Take this off,” she whispered, tugging on his shirt and all but ripping it over his head when he sat up enough to give her the space to do so. Her hand dropped his shirt before she pulled her own off, exposing her bare chest to him. She reached for him, but he resisted her pull to take in her perky breasts, capped with two gorgeous, dark nipples that were hardened against the cool air.

Another throb in his shaft at the sight of her pulled a groan from the depths of his throat and he settled on top of her again, one hand going to massage a globe while he dipped his head again to suck on her pulse point. Willow shuddered, nails dragging along his sides while she rocked her hips, rubbing herself against his erection.

“Fuck, you feel big,” she whispered through a smile.

“Wait till it’s inside you,” he whispered back, smirking against her cheek, completely overwhelmed with all the sensations he was feeling. She gave a breathy chuckle as her nails marked his back. Her hot breath against his ear, the feel of her breast in his palm and her heat grinding against the hardest part of him were driving him to the brink of insanity.

Longing for a new excitement, he shifted himself down enough to take her nipple between his lips while his fingers danced over her torso, making a path down until he reached her shorts. Tracing a line with a single digit down the zipper, he rubbed over the seam in the center of the soft denim, earning a soft cry from her as her own fingers sunk into his hair, holding him to her chest.

“That feels good,” she moaned in a shudder, her body arching and rocking, apparently just as desperate to feel every touch as he was. She could feel the wetness of her panties seeping through the denim of her shorts and whimpered as his touch became more demanding. The burning in her core was intense, sparking more tickles over every inch of her. Reaching between them, she gripped him through his cotton pants, moaning again as a smile spread over her face.

Jackson growled under his breath and with nimble fingers, he unbuttoned and unzipped her bottoms, sliding his hand down the front to slide his digit over her seam. “You’re so wet and I’ve barely touched you,” he purred, honing some of her essence on her clit and drawing circles over the swollen bud.

“I’ve been thinking about this since I saw you in that towel,” she answered, moving her hand to slip under his sweats and wrapping her fingers around his heavy sex. “Oh my God, I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”

He groaned loudly, biting down on the nipple that had gone un-stimulated as he carefully pushed a finger inside her, beginning a sawing motion and looking up to her face. Her eyes were hooded, mouth hanging open as she panted and rocked against his hand. His vision was laser focused on how beautiful she looked in the throes of passion, eyes hooded and mouth hanging open to allow the shallow breaths to escape as she rolled her hips in tandem with his thrusting finger. Adding a second finger as she palmed his weeping tip, using his precum to ease the way for her hand to stroke his shaft in time with his hand, Jackson gently stretched her further, lips coming down to press against hers again.

Willow moaned against him, sweat beginning to slide over her brow and down her neck as she swiped some more droplets of precum from the eye of his cock and again smeared it on his organ. In her stoned state, his fingers tickling the most sensitive part of her had her body trembling as she whined against his mouth. “I’m ready, please fuck me.”

Groaning under his breath, Jackson slowly pulled his fingers out of her soaked channel, bringing them up to her lips and watching as she sucked them clean. Her hands pushed his sweats down past his ass as the fingers not in her mouth nimbly unbuttoned and unzipped her shorts. Sitting back, he pulled them off of her and tossed them aside, pushing his pants down the rest of the way and reaching into the pocket for the condom he’d slipped in there.

Willow arched a brow, and Jackson could feel his cheeks heating up even more. “It was just in case--”

“--Uhhuh, I’ll give you shit about it later, just fuck me,” she answered, watching him roll the condom on with her bottom lip caught between her teeth as her legs subconsciously opened wider for him. Her fingers played with her slit as her eyes came up to find him watching her hand.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Yes,” she moaned, moving her hand to pull him by the hip between her thighs. She gasped when she felt his head at her entrance, bucking her hips against him. The emptiness inside her was unbearable and her legs wrapped tightly around his hips, pulling him closer. Reaching down with one hand, she took him and aligned him with her opening, eyes widening as he pushed into her. “Oh fuck!” she cried, throwing her head back as he filled her completely.

He growled against her salty skin, lips dropping kisses along her jawline as he gave her a moment to adjust to his girth. When he felt her walls clamp around him, he began to move with a moan, slowly at first then increasing the pace as the burning in his loins became stronger. Her heat was all consuming and coupled with the way her hands continued to stroke over his bare back, tips curling to leave half-moon marks, he was soon sent into a tailspin of sensitivity. Every breath that fanned over his lips, every scratch that dragged over his sweaty skin, every hug her insides gave to his thrusting cock were all that existed in that moment. Everything else, even the music he’d found so incredibly annoying just hours earlier that now accompanied their sounds of rapture and the impending finals that had stressed him all week were simply absent from his mind. The only thing that existed in the world was her, her hands, her pussy gripping him so perfectly, clamping when he hit a particularly sensitive spot inside her.

Willow curled a fist in his hair, using the grip to pull his head up before she pushed off the cushion, urging him up. Keeping one arm tightly around his neck, she pushed them up with the other until he was sitting on the couch with her in his lap. “Oh fuck, yes!” she whined, beginning to rock against him, grinding her clit on the pubic hair above his package.

Groaning, Jackson gripped her hips, helping her move on top of him as he took her nipple into his mouth again, biting playfully and soothing the sting of his nips with his tongue. His heart was throbbing in his throat and chest, body on fire as a spark flickered on his shaft, like a machete striking a piece of flint. Her fingers tangled in his hair as she let her head fall back, the ends of her dreads dragging over his skin. With a growl, he reached up with one hand and gathered a handful of her dreadlocks, keeping her head tilted back with his grip as his lips smeared wet kisses along her neck, biting hard enough to leave his mark on her otherwise unblemished skin.

He could feel every single part of his body and hers, and the heightened stimulation and friction they were creating between them became so overwhelming that he thought of nothing else but igniting that spark that still flickered with every thrust of her hips against his. It was a primal, animalistic kind of sex that he hadn’t had since he was much younger, certainly more intense than even his first time inside a woman. Her heat was all consuming and mingled with his until his hair was wet again, the sweat now dripping over their bodies and stinging his closed eyes. He could feel his orgasm quickly approaching, the burning tickles from their couple spreading over every inch of his body, and he thought he could even feel it in his mind, on a molecular level, as though every neuron were being coaxed by the movements of their bodies. A pressure built until he felt as though his head would explode, when she bucked her hips and cried out her release, still rocking insistently against him until, with a loud moan, his own orgasm burst from him.

His limbs felt almost numb as he was sent into a blissfully heightened state of orgasmic euphoria. His arms and legs trembled, hips still moving against hers as they gradually began to come down. Panting against her shoulder, his arms held her flush against him, hands stroking over her skin, mirroring her arms hands on him, which only seemed to prolong their orgasms. It was as though they come with their entire bodies, the energy surging through them like a livewire.

“Holy shit,” he groaned in a shudder as he felt himself float back down to Earth. “That was so intense,” he whispered.

She hummed her agreement, biting her bottom lip and looking down at him. “I told you.” Kissing him one more time, Willow slid from off of his lap and curled up beside him, her legs draped over his thighs. “Bet you’re glad you ate one of those cookies after all, huh?”

“To say the least,” he replied, licking his dry lips and realizing that the inside of his mouth was parched as well. “You want some water?” he asked, looking down at her.

“Yes, please, but be careful getting up,” she answered. “You might feel a little light-headed when you stand.”

He chuckled softly and carefully stood, steadying himself before he went to the fridge and pulled out a couple of water bottles, depositing the used condom into the trash on his way back to the couch. He handed her one and once again sat on the couch beside her and opened his bottle, drinking half the water. He could still feel the effects of the cookie and set his bottle down to move until they were laying down on the couch, arms wrapped around each other.

“Give me a few minutes and then I can go again if you’re up to it,” she said, fingers playing with his hair.

He hummed around a smile and nodded. “As long as we do it in a bed this time.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” she replied in a chuckle, pausing for a moment before she tugged on his hair. “So let’s talk about this condom in the pocket thing.”

#dr. jackson neill #half baked series

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spoopyghostgirl · 5 years

Text

No Other Way (A John Wick Fic)

Fandom: John Wick

Name: No Other Way

Fic name inspiration: No Other Way by Sinead Harnett + Snakehips

Pairing: (John Wick X oc X Zero) [Cassian X oc X Santino D'Antonio]

Word Count: 3,494

'Amber eyes,' Zero noted dutifully, dark eyes unwavering as he watched the young woman before him. She sat at the counter of his restuarant, a pair of wayfarer sunglasses on her face, Zero having finally seen her hidden gaze when she looked over them at the kitty that had hopped on the counter.

"Hallo, miene süße katzechen," the menu she had been skimming over was forgotten immediately, Pochi having stolen her attention. "Bist du gekommen, um ein paar kostenlose Fische zu holen," she continued, her fingertips burying themselves in the fur of the purring creature. Pochi rolled into his back, shooting a glance over in Zero's direction, the icy blonde haired woman following the creatures gaze. "Ist der nette Attentäter dein Vater," Pochi purred enthusiastically in response, stretching his long white arms up and wrapping them around the womans wrist. "Wie unfair von dir, solch ein süßes Wesen in deinem Haus zu haben," retracting her hand from Pochi, the white haired woman turned to him. Zero, who had frozen at her observation of being an assassin, watched as a coy grin spread across her lips. "Keres," she spoke in a way of greeting, right hand extending towards him.

"Zero," he hesitated briefly, eyes slightly widening when something cold and circular pressed against his palm. Pulling back he found a silver coin in his hand. It was similar to the coins traded amongst assassins and the like for varying jobs and resources but this coin was more intricately patterned. A skull with a crown upon it was in the center surrounded by a circle. Moving out from the center was what looked like olive branches surrounding it. 'Quod. Debitum. Sanquine.'

"My associates wish for you to meet them at the continental," her English was smooth, sounding of an American rather than the foreigner that she likely was. Pushing herself to her feet, she reached out her right hand once more to affectionately stroke Pochi, a content smile slipping across her lips. "And Zero," he was surprised that the woman had turned her back to him, her head turning slightly so she could glance back at him. "I would not suggest keeping them waiting," with that, she stepped out into the rain, an all black umbrella seemingly appearing above her head. Brown met brown, a dark skinned man having stepped closer to the white haired woman so they could share the umbrella. "Cassian," she spoke his name firmly, drawing the mans attention from him. "You know how much your mistress hates having to wait," his jaw clenched but he made no move to step into Zero's restuarant. Cassian was a Canis, a hound of the Table and their families. He had sworn his loyalty to Gianna, the younger child of the D'Antino clan. In that time he had grown to love the woman, his life having become tied to hers so deeply that it had been bonded in blood. Opening the car door to the black jetta that had pulled up to the restaurant, Cassian allowed his companion in first before following after.

"Almost as much as you love playing messenger," this caused the white haired woman to grin, her right hand reaching up to absently run through her short hair.

"Anything to get away from Michael," Cassians muscles tensed, feeling the overwhelming urge to comfort her. Things had been tense between the pair, Lucifer having been chosen as the family head and face of the table. 'But she declined, instead requesting to remain active and allow her elder brother to take the lead in their family.' It had been quite the scandal, Lucifer having embodied everything the table stood for. 'And now, she is a adjudicator,' the highest member of their society, only sitting below those who sat at the table. A warm hand wrapped around her own, Cassian grinning at how chilled her skin was.

"Now now, cant have you turning into an ass-sicle," Lucifier grinned, turning her hand over to squeeze Cassians. "That came out wrong," he muttered, attempting to pull his hand away, only for Lucifer to tighten her hold on him.

"You always know just what to say Cass," she flirted, Cassians cheeks coloring at her obvious teasing.

"See, and this is why some assassins think you slept your way to the top. You God damn shameless hoe," Lucifer full on laughed then, releasing her hold on her friend.

"You adore me and we both know it," the car rolled to a stop, Cassian exiting first before offering Lucifer his hand. "What a gentleman," rolling his eyes, Cassian made to pull the umbrella away from her only for her hand to close around his. "Dont you dare," Cassian grinned at the daggers she glared at him, stopping only when they entered the continental. Cassian stopped to shake the water from their umbrella, Lucifer crossing the lobby to Charon, the concierge of New Yorks continental.

"Good afternoon, mistress," Keres smiled at the polite greeting, watching as Charon reached his hand under the counter and pulled out a jingling satin pouch. "For you from Master Black," Lucifer accepted the gift, not stopping to count it before she slipped it into the inside pocket of her jacket.

"Thank you, Charon, and did there happen to be any messages for me?" The bald man nodded, producing a plain but worn white envelope, Lucifer doing her best to suppress the smallest slivers of a smile.

"Marcus hand delivered it himself," Grin smiled at the mention of the older man. He had been keeping casual tabs on an old acquaintance of theirs, Lucifer having been happy to hear that the man had found what he had been searching for. 'Though, it is rather unfortunate he couldn't find it in you,' her lips pressed together painfully at the thought. He had wanted out of the only life they had both known and when he said he was ready to jump, Lucifer had clutched the railing and watched him dive to freedom. 'I'm sure she is able to make him much happier than I could have,' Lucifer shook her head, stepping into the elevator that would take them to the higher levels, Cassian having to shimmy in before the doors closed.

"Hey, blondie, watch it!" Grins amber gaze snapped up to her frowning companion, Cassian carefully tugging his jacket free from the elevator doors. "What's got you so distracted,"

'Distractions are what gets someone like you killed,'

"Nothing," her lips twitched but her neutral expression held. 'Always so bad at lying to your friends,' Cassian sighed but didnt push the matter, stepping slightly back so he stood behind her. Pinching her eyes shut, Lucifer steadied her mind, her shoulders squaring, and her back straightening. Her golden gaze flickered open as the doors moved apart, revealing the roof of the continental.

"Well well well, if it isnt Lucifer Black," Keres frowned, golden gaze moving to land on her elder brother. Beside him stood the manager of the continental, Winston, a dark colored drink clutched in his hand. To her brothers right were the D'Antino siblings, Santino looking uninterested and aloof while Gianna looked worried, her hands worrying at one another.

"Michael," she greeted, face a calm mask of indifference. "It is a pleasure to be seeing you again," she continued absently, the protocall she was set to follow being ingrained in her personality. "As well as seeing the two of you," Santino smirked, stepping forward to take her hand in his own.

"The pleasure is mine, my love," Santino flirted, raising her hand to his lips. Gianna rolled her eyes behind her brother, the pair having both been pinning after the fair haired woman in their youth. 'And despite how firmly Lucifer has denied his advances since turning down her position at the high table, he still hasnt stopped.'

"You flatter me, Santino," she turned to glanced around herself, pulling her hand back. "Zero should be arriving at any moment now," she spoke off handedly, golden gaze moving past the four man group before her.

"Our fathers are waiting within the garden for you and your associate," she nodded, she and Cassian moving forward towards the entrance. "Not you, Canis, father has no reason to see you." Dark eyes hardened, Lucifer stopped,

"That is not a decision you get to make, Michael. I chose Cassian for this, just like you choose the ninja and his followers." Michael's jaw clenched but he made no move to stop the pair, Cassian trailing slightly behind the younger woman. Pushing open the double glasses doors that lead into the large greenhouse that sat atop the continental of New York, Lucifer inhaled deeply. "I really do love the smell of this place," she spoke offhandedly, trying to cool the heat that had surrounded her at her brothers unnecessary harshness towards Cass. 'He has my place at the table, the least he can do is be civil towards those I surround myself with.' Her thoughts moved absently to both the pouch of coins and letter she had slipped into her inner pocket. 'Jardani,'

"Hallo meine süße Sonnenblume," Lucifer tensed, light eyes moving up to land on her father. He was a man of average height with mocha skin and large almond colored eyes.

"Hallo, Herr," he smiled at her formality, dark eyes moving from his daughters bowed head to his partner.

"Hello my sweet," her golden gaze moved to a deeply tanned man with a warm smile and brown, almost black eyes. "It is wonderful seeing you again, despite it being for a job." Giovanni D'Antonio stepped forward, wrapping his arms around the slim young woman. Lucifer felt her body tense, golden eyes moving to her fathers hawk like gaze. Slipping her arms around the older man, she gave a tight squeeze, smiling warmly at him as they separated.

"Hello, Gio, it is always wonderful seeing you." He grinned broadly, dark eyes moving to her father. She kept her face warm despite the irritation she felt. Ever since she had turned 16 Giovanni had an... concerning level of interest in her. Something her father was always happy to use against him. Turning his dark eyes, Giovanni smiled, having always been rather fond of the dark skinned man to her right.

"And young Cassian, how wonderful it is that you were hand chosen by sweet Luci to complete this mission with her. I know now that this contract will be taken care of quickly and efficiently." Cassian bowed his head, dark eyes briefly moving to Lucifer.

"Thank you, sir, Lucifer and i will complete this task and make both you and the table proud." Giving a nod, Giovanni looked back to Lucifer, a brow arched.

"Did you give the man your true name?" Shaking her head he nodded, unsurprised. 'Its been quite the long time since shes gone by her given name.' "Keres it is, then, though I do find myself wondering. Did you tell him how we feel about being kept waiting?" She opened her mouth to respond when the doors behind her opened.

"Good afternoon, I apologize for the delay," he informed, the thick Japanese accent he had had at restaurant completely vanishing. Frowning, Lucifer turned her gaze to him, finding his dark brown eyes flickering around the green house. 'An act?' She wondered, figuring he had to be quite the actor to have not broken character during their discussion. 'Maybe he did not realize the position I hold...,' she watched as a smile slid across his lips, left hand moving absently over one of the herb plants he passed to join them.

"It is quite alright, Zero, we were just going to start now." Reaching her right arm out she grabbed Zeros arm, pulling him closer to the trio before her father reached to his right, pulling on a lever that protruded from the ground. Zero glanced over at the white haired woman, his hand having moved to grab hers, expecting an attack. Lucifer arched a brow but made no move to harm the man, merely removing her hand from his.

"Thank you," she nodded, the platform they stood on lowering several levels in a dimlightly lit shaft before clicking to a halt in an all black room. Lucifer's eyes adjusted quickly, being able to see the outline of her companions before her eyes closed, bright white lights flickering on around them. Her eyes opened, finding neither Zero or Cassian had moved, Cassian subtly watching their newest companion warily. Lucifer stepped forward, following her father and Giovanni off the platform, Cass and Zero finally following her after Zero moved first. They were lead through another set of glass doors before they came upon an all glass room. "Cool," Zero exclaimed softly, Lucifers lips twitching into a grin despite herself. Moving across the glass floor, Lucifer made her way to a glass table, taking a seat while her father and Giovanni stood at the head.

"Gentlemen, if you'd be so kind as to join us," once more Zero moved first, Cassian watching him closely. Placing her hand on the back of the chair next to her, Cassian sat down in it, Zero sitting across from the pair. Abraham smirked behind his hand, dark eyes moving to Giovanni, his lips twitching into a tight lipped frown.

"Now, I'm sure you're wondering why we have gathered you here," Abraham started, picking up a black remote off the glass table. "It has come to our attention that there have been some rumors going around. Rumors of murders through out the ranks, an assassin amongst assassins. After careful consideration, we have decided that you all would be first to know that the rumors are... true." Zero and Cassian looked shocked, Cassian casting a quick glance in Lucifers direction. 'She already knew,' Zero noted, unsurprised now that he felt he was getting a clearer image of who the woman was. 'An adjudicator, ' the face of the high table. "We have gathered the three of you today because you've been selected to take the lead on fishing out any moles within our organization and eliminating those who stand against us." Abraham paused, dark eyes moving over the trio, lingering on his blank faced daughter.

"That is, if you choose to accept the task. For you, Zero, your students would be expected to take part in this assignment. We understand if you need to decline our request if you feel that they are unprepared-,"

"I accept." Zero interrupted, "my students are more than ready to take on this task."

"And you, Cassian, do you accept?" Cassian looked to Lucifer, her face blank. 'I wont make this choice for you,' he could almost hear her thoughts. Turning back to Abraham, he gave a nod of his head.

"Yes, I accept," the tv screen shifted, photos of dead Canis decorating the screen.

"At first, they started with newer members of our society, children really, that they could take out easily. We tried warning them and that's where the rumors began but that wasnt enough. They continued to fall and so, we sent in those trained to protect those at the table. We thought they would succeed but it seemed they were prepared. Many were lost but we were able go get a better idea of what's going on and who their main targets are." The screen shifted, Lucifer recognizing all of the faces that not littered the screen. Her eyes narrowed, focusing on their chests and stomachs. 'They-,'

"As you can see, they carved the high tables names into them." Lucifer looked to Giovanni, his jaw flexing, clueing her off to the anger and worry he felt.

"And, from what we gathered, they were alive when this happened." Cassians jaw clenched, seeing his brethren slaughtered in such a way.

"So we have someone whose hatred for the table runs deep, likely a personal vendetta against the members." Lucifer spoke up, grabbing the attention of her companions. "Which means, it will be unwise to trust those outside if this room. Anyone could be the traitor," Giovanni hummed in agreement, looking to Abraham.

"Correct but, with how the table operates, it would be best to keep our friends close and our enemies even closer. That's why Keres here will be venturing out into the streets of New York tomorrow, meeting with both the Director and the Bowery King." 'Mistress...,' she closed her eyes, thinking of the tattoo she had been given, showing that she once served the older woman. "Winston has already been made aware of what is going on, the three of you have rooms reserved and paid for for you for the next several weeks here in the continental." Sticking his hand into his inner jacket pocket, he pulled out a large red satin pouch, placing it neatly in Lucifers hands. "To pay for your trips to other continentals. We arent sure if they stick to our policies but we believe it's for the best if you all stay near one another." Turning away, Abraham looked up at the screen, Lucifer recognizing Alejandro, the man who had acted as her fathers Canis for the last 25 years. "All of you are dismissed now, if you have any questions, Keres knows how to reach us. Lucifer gave a nod, pushing herself to her feet, Cassian following soon after.

"Zero?" Lucifer questioned, realizing the bald man hadn't moved to follow after the pair.

"I have questions, if the two of you have time to spare." Lucifer made eye contact with her father, the dark skinned man nodding, Lucifer taking that as a good enough sign that her father was fine. Grabbing Cassians wrist, she pulled the taller man from the room, the pair ending up in a long hallway, the door behind him all but vanishing into the wall.

"How long," Lucifer turned, Cassians dark eyes narrowed at the wall over her shoulder. "How long did you know that he was-," his eyes pinched shut, Lucifers betrayal weighing heavily between them.

"2 weeks," Cassians eyea snapped to her, Lucifers gaze unwavering. "Neither Abraham or Giovanni thought we should tell you in advance. They did not want you to agree to join because you would wish to seek vengeance." She paused, stepping closer, her hand dropping to grab his. "Cass, I know how close you and Alejandro were-,"

"Did you? He was like a father to me and you knew that! Yet you waited TWO WEEKS," Lucifer stepped closer, right hand sliding over his mouth.

"Cassian, please, we need to continue this somewhere else." Her voice lowered, light eyes searching his face. "Please," his jaw clenched but he moved, leading Lucifer back to the suite she would continue staying in. Lucifer opened the door, Cassian entering first, jaw clenched. Lucifer turned to lock the door, her mind a calm sea despite the anger that she could all but taste rolling off her companion. Turning, she gasped, Cassian having suddenly closed the distance between them.

"Why," she gulped, light eyes flickering between his heated gaze and a spot on the wall behind him.

"The table thought it best," he scoffed, whirling on his heel, stopping across the lavish room. "Cass, please-,"

"I never would have kept something like this from you." The hurt in his voice stopped her in her tracks, Lucifer realizing that he wasnt angry but hurt. Cassian perched himself on the side of the bed, Lucifer moving across the room to crawl across the bed and sit behind him.

"I just wanted you to be with someone when you found out or get the news from someone else," she spoke softly, reaching forward with her right hand, and lacing their fingers together. "You're my closest friend, Cass, I wanted to be here for you. I'm sorry I waited so long," Cassian turned to her, reaching up with his left hand to stroke her cheek. Sighing, he leaned his head forward, pressing their foreheads together.

"I forgive you," Lucifer smiled widely, brushing their noses together. "Don't start trying to be cute, I may have forgiven you but that doesnt mean I'm happy with you." He leaned slightly away but the smile on his face gave away his lie.

"Mmmm, you adore me and you know it," she teased, tensing when the look in his eyes shifted.

"I really really do," Lucifer leaned forward, connecting their lips. 'Anything to get him to stop looking at me like that.' Despite the passion shared between the pair, Lucifer found herself unable to love Cassian in the way that she new he deserved, her love having belonged to another. A man she had fallen for as a child. A man who had abandoned the life they had lived together. A man who asked her to leap into a new life with him. The man she watched ride away into a life she new she'd never get to live.

Jardani Jovanovic.

The baba yaga.

Or simply know as Jonathan Wick.

#cassian john wick #zero john wick #john wick 3 spoilers #john wick 3 #john wick #santino d'antonio john wick #santino d'antonio #cassian #original character #lucifer black

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alltechtipstricks · 5 years

Text

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absofrutely · 6 years

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Wedding Planning

As I groggily leapt out of bed to hit the snooze button on my alarm, the chance that I would crawl back to bed vanished as the big toe on my right foot connected with the base of my dresser. As my foot exploded in pain, I mouthed “FUCK!” briefly forgetting that I lived in a studio apartment with no one else. “FUCK!” I screamed. I groped at the alarm clock blindly, frantically searching for any button that would silence it, and in the process, advancing the clock ahead by an hour and two minutes, reading 7:02am when it really should have displayed 6:00am.

I spent half the year dreading daylight saving time since I hated waking up in the darkness. As the days got darker, I found that my mood followed suit. I had no time to waste as I only had two months until the big day. After years of evading uncomfortable conversation, Trish had finally cornered me on year eight of our relationship. It was more of a negotiation than anything else, like the rational endpoint of something our relationship was supposedly leading up to. The magnum opus, but with a reluctant composer. A hail Mary that was perfectly targeted, but the quarterback was tired, and going to the Superbowl seemed like more of a chore than an accomplishment - so he intentionally threw the ball out of bounds with three seconds left, leaving the ticket holders in the Superdome with their jaws completely agape.

These scenarios swirled through my head as she explained the logic and benefits of getting married.

As she droned on, "... but that means we get two personal exemptions instead of one if we file a joint return. And yes, although we can't deduct as much mortgage interest anymore since home prices are in excess of two million in this area, the standard deduction was raised as well, and..." I nodded, perhaps a little too animatedly.

She frowned, “You’re not listening. You always do thi-”

I finished her previous thought, “…and the standard deduction was raised to $24,000, so if one of us stops working for childcare, filing jointly still makes sense because filing separately only gets us $12,000 each, which seems like it’s the same thing, but actually not, because in sole-provider families, that $12,000 won’t do anything for the non-earner.”

I beamed.

She glared at me, exasperated to be proven wrong, but at the same time, somewhat conflicted since I was listening and therefore had no right to be mad.

It’s moments like these that fed the smugness that carried me through most of my days. Being accused of not paying attention during a meeting, but producing detailed and thoughtful notes in a follow-up email. Parking in a handicapped parking spot and being called out by an opinionated old man while walking into the store, but pointing at the black walking boot that housed your broken foot as he sheepishly sputtered a half apology. An alcoholic father, storming into his son’s bedroom because he heard the sound of videogames being played, ready to unleash his anger, but finding his son doing homework quietly with Chopin in the background.

After she had stated the facts about marriage, which were admittedly well-thought-out, I agreed, but told her there was one condition: I would plan the wedding.

Deciding on the wedding venue was the first step for “Save the Date” purposes, but after that, I had dragged my feet the next couple of months. Since I put myself in charge of planning everything else, Trish was suspicious of my progress. Frequently, when we were spending time together, I would excuse myself to take a couple of planning-related calls. I’d talk loudly – almost too loudly – and drop a couple of buzz words here and there.

“But if we’re going to go with this caterer, we need to schedule a time to taste the food. It’s nice that the photographer knows a florist who can design the centerpieces, but I’d really prefer that she went along with the design of our invitation, since we’re trying to keep the theme consistent. In terms of videography, the video staff told us their dress code adheres to neutral colors, which coincide with the overall attire of our wedding party.”

I was, of course, talking to no one else on the line, holding up a silenced cell phone to my head. I had to be careful too, since I had almost exhausted the wedding lexicon in my first call.

There were some hiccups, but nothing I wouldn’t be able to recover from.

“The black magic roses are almost indistinguishable from the black baccara, but the black dahlia really stands out to me.”

Trish glanced in my direction, and I realized that the Black Dahlia referred to the 1947 unsolved murder of Elizabeth Short, who had been gruesomely killed in Los Angeles, her body severed in two.

“Uh, I meant the ‘Diva’ dahlia – the one that’s bright pink.”

Trish glanced back down at her phone, scrolling through Instagram.

But the stall tactics masked my true intentions for the wedding – it would be a masterpiece if I could pull it off.

I dissected every piece of all the ingredients that went into a wedding. From the bar décor to the calligraphy on the menu cards, I became a wedding planning powerhouse.

The plan was relatively simple. Weddings were expensive and I really didn’t feel like shelling out $50,000 for a one-time celebration. In fact, I recalled some studies that I read that correlated higher divorce rates with higher wedding costs. So obviously, I quit my job – that was step number one.

Hiring a team of professionals to take care of every single wedding detail seemed extravagant and unnecessary. I dreamed of a reality where I could perform all the functions at a wedding at once. As the guests arrived to my wedding, I would man the bar, pouring everyone a welcome cocktail. Though I was tired from driving the shuttle over from the hotel, I made sure every guest would receive a shot of Jameson and a pickleback.

The guests would take their seats in the folding lawn chairs that I set up earlier in the day, and as the wedding procession started, I would also become the wedding photographer, taking pictures with my Canon Powershot A60 that my dad bought in 2004, but only in 640x480 resolution since I only had 20 megabytes left on my Compact Flash card. Before the bride started walking in, I would run to the kitchen, stirring a large vat of Thai peanut pasta, intended to feed 150 people. I had discarded everyone’s RSVP that included their meal choice and dietary restrictions. In this day and age, it’d be downright irresponsible for someone to not bring an Epipen wherever they went.

As the bride walked down the aisle, I would play the “Here Comes the Bride” wedding march on the violin. Having taken two weeks of YouTube lessons, I was pretty confident I would be able to perform in front of a live audience. I would play the song live because I abhorred the thought of a trashy recording at a classy ceremony.

Since I was the officiant of my own wedding, I would grab the microphone and address the audience, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to--” I’d catch Trish’s eye. Of course, she would be glaring daggers at me.

But as I daydreamed about my fantasy for a couple hours, I knew it wasn’t feasible for one person to perform every conceivable role at a wedding. However, I did know that I only trusted myself. That was the only constraint in devising my plan – I had to make sure that I had complete control over all the minutia.

There was only one possible solution - embryo genome editing with CRISPR-Cas9, the hottest new tool in molecular biology. The concept was simple enough – when bacteria fend off invasions from viruses, the bacteria capture DNA snippets from their attackers, effectively “remembering” who had attacked them, allowing them to create DNA segments called CRISPR arrays. Next time the viruses attack, the bacteria has the ability to disable its attacker by producing RNA segments from the CRISPR arrays, targeting the viruses’ DNA. With CRISPR-associated protein 9, the bacteria can then cut the viruses’ DNA apart, rendering the attack harmless.

With this concept in mind, gene editing had never been easier. Scientists simply repurposed CRISPR-Cas 9 to cut out a targeted gene. After a gene was excised, the doublestrand break repair mechanism gets triggered, ready to accept a homologous replacement piece of DNA. I picked up my kit at Shoppers Drug Mart after seeing that they were out of stock on Amazon.

Although modern day ethics prevented scientists from editing the genetics of embryos or egg and sperm cells, I decided that the rules were meant to be broken since I was on a tight wedding planning deadline.

While thumbing through TV channels one night, I caught a portion of “Jack,” the Robin Williams movie where the main character ages four times faster than his peers. When he graduated high school, he was a 50 year old man with the mind of an 18 year old. Obviously, Jack had some form of Werner syndrome, a rare disorder that caused premature aging. Offhand, I knew that this was caused by a mutation of DNA helicase, RecQ-like type 3, also known as the WRN gene found on chromosome 8.

My mind raced, as I knew I needed to find a donor template for an individual with Werner syndrome.

After a couple days in the lab, I injected 10 of the embryos I was incubating with a couple of choice mutations of the WRN gene. All I had to do now was wait. My wedding helpers would be the correct age, and most importantly, free of charge after all.

When the big day arrived, I spent a good portion of the morning making sure my army of clones looked dapper. Smoothing the collars on their bespoke suits, my clones exuded confidence, professionalism, and most of all, obedience. Still in movement, but not mechanical. Neutral in countenance, but not at all robotic. Every last detail, down to their regional accents, carefully crafted.

“Would you like some cauwfee suh?”

“Please make sure that your name appears in the computuh.”

“Dawhling, please step this way.”

Elated by the success of the clones, I let out an exaggerated sigh, half relief, and half fatigue. Working feverishly in the lab for the last two months, not to mention bottle feeding 10 rapidly aging clone infants, I felt like a shell of a human being. I tried everything: teabags, refrigerated cucumbers, spoons placed in the freezer overnight. The puffiness under my eyes persisted no matter what I tried, the remnants of many nights I spent weeping because one of the infants had passed away due to an infected skin ulcer.

Watching life leaving his little body tore me apart. As he gasped his last hiccups, I allowed the tears that welled up in my eyes to fall freely. I sobbed for three nights in a row, inconsolable as I screamed into my pillow with anguish.

“Is there anyone out there? Is each other all we have?”

My wedding bartender was gone, one of the most expensive wedding personnel to hire, and I wailed even harder when I realized that there wasn’t enough time to incubate a replacement clone.

Despite some unanticipated road bumps, I was ready to set my wedding planning machine into motion.

Attentive, polite, and witty, the clones’ mannerisms posed a striking resemblance to mine, although their rapidly aging bodies were a foil to my rugged good looks.

The morning of the wedding, I staggered out of bed at 10:30am and immediately chugged a bottle of water. After I splashed water on my face, I looked up and squinted at the mirror. Pulling down the skin directly under my right eye, I wasn’t surprised to see the faint outlines of pink veins that originated from the corners of my almond shaped eye. Though it was a tradition, it was generally inadvisable to go out drinking until five in the morning the night before your own wedding. But I caved into peer pressure, recognizing that it wasn’t every Friday night when my closest friends were in town.

For the guests, the first official wedding activity was the ceremony at 4:00pm, so from a third-party perspective, they wouldn’t know how far behind I actually was.

I heard rustling in the closet, and I knew that the clones were also awake, ready to do my bidding.

To minimize the friction of controlling the clones, and to completely bypass any type of socialization of servitude where I’d need to crush their collective spirit multiple times to substantiate the fact that serving me was their only reality, I had decided to inject my own consciousness into the nine remaining beings. I had played the role of good cop, bad cop in breaking the free will of a clone multiple times before, and although I had thoroughly enjoyed the thrill of violence and control, due to the side effects of Werner syndrome, the clones were in no shape for any type of physical punishment. The wedding simply could not happen if I lost one more clone.

Trish had accused me of being spacey and distant in the weeks leading up to the wedding, but remotely controlling 10 different bodies, including my own, was a task that I grossly underestimated. She had no idea that while I was making dinner for her, my consciousness was watching YouTube videos on how to play the violin, learning proper plating techniques for a three course meal, reading up on the latest flower arrangement trends for centerpieces, creating a wedding program on Adobe InDesign, carefully constructing a multilayered wedding cake, hemming my tuxedo dress pants, and negotiating a limousine from a used car lot. If she only knew, her hand wouldn’t have slackened unapologetically when I introduced her as “Tina” to my “co-workers” at a fake work event that I staged.

Since the clones’ eyes were an extension of my own eyes, the sight of myself, as viewed by another person, was something that I’d never get used to. When I went to the gym, when walking by an awkwardly angled mirror, I’d catch a glimpse of my side profile, a view I’d never see if I stared straight into a mirror. Not matter how many nude duckfaces I selfied with Snapchat filters, the extent to which I saw the side of my head was minimal to say the least. It was an out of body experience, the kind people talked about when they technically “died” on the operating table, but all I could think about was how weird my head was shaped, and how bushy my eyebrows looked from the side, and how crooked my nose was.

I wouldn’t have ever done it, but I wondered what it would be like to fight myself. Would it be like one of those “did you know you can bite off your finger with your teeth, just as easily as biting a carrot in half, but our brains prevent us from doing so” myths? If I could anticipate my every move, even if I managed to hit myself, there must be some semblance of me letting it happen. But what if I got killed? My original body, I mean, the master pulling the strings of the puppet. I wondered if my consciousness would transfer over or if these hollow shells that were technically human beings would cease to mentally function.

By afternoon of the wedding day, I had hoped the fogginess would have burned off completely, as the clones needed all of their focus to pull this off.

A sharp knocking on my hotel door startled me, but I should have known that my groomsmen were right on time for wedding photos. As my clones fussed over the position of our boutonnieres and the knots of our bowties, I decided that it was time to distribute my groomsmen gifts. While my bachelor party raged on in Rio de Janiero, I had deployed the clones to conquer and pillage the uncontacted peoples of the Miqueleno-Kujubim in the Brazilian state of Rondônia. With their superior technology and Blitzkrieg methods, the clones subdued the natives in less than 30 seconds. The pillaging commenced, and soon I had my gifts in hand. I presented each groomsman with a gold ingot with their names engraved, and I had prayed that the clones had at least washed off the blood and any remaining hair.

As the bridal party made its way over to the wedding venue, so did the clones. I had expected some sort of crisis, like a hiccup in the officiating, overdone steak on the wedding menu, perhaps a crucial and obvious detail that I had blatantly missed. But everything went smoothly, and when Trish locked eyes with me at the reception, she smiled warmly, impressed at my ability to organize such a lavish production. As Trish relaxed and settled in, I started loosening up as well. Blood rushed back into my once white-knuckles as I relaxed my iron grip on the minds of my clones.

At first, it was a series of minor missteps, like a fumbled wine glass during a refill, or an errant fork clattering on the ground. Completely imperceptible through the raucous crowd. Expected, even.

As I turned around, I caught a glimpse of a clone pouring the after-dinner coffee for one of Trish’s guests. As I turned back to Trish, I heard a bloodcurdling scream. Turning my attention behind me once more, the same clone was slumped over the same guest, pouring scalding hot coffee in her lap. Taking a note that it was one of Trish’s guests, I turned back to Trish once more, stone-faced.

It’s just decaf. I don’t like it either, but no need to scream bloody murder, I thought.

I had planned for this. I knew that the hive mind could only prop up rapidly aging shells for a limited amount of time before they crumpled up into helpless heaps on the ground. As the puppet master, I kept the strings on my marionettes taut, but as soon as I fed them some slack, their limbs splayed out, almost completely limp, propped up by the few strands of longer strings that prevented the puppet from collapsing completely.

Shifting my focus, I decided to take back the reins. With my eyes closed, I scanned the depths of my brain for bodies I was capable of enslaving. This was the one downside of the mind control serum - identifying host bodies that I had once injected required intense concentration, as eligible candidates looked like blobs of radiating heat, like how they appeared on a thermal imaging camera, but a lot less clear.

It was a mix of bad luck and sheer coincidence that I had once inhabited the minds of most of my wedding guests - mostly for personal gain and fraud. I grasped at any red blob, assuming the consciousness of guest after guest. For each mind I assumed, I glanced down. Since there were no mirrors, I immediately looked at the back of my hands. Although primitive, I had branded all my clones with a sigil for easy identification.

I looked at the clock - it was around 7:45pm and the LSD that I spiked in the water supply should have kicked in five minutes ago.

The air around me seemed to quiver even though I stayed perfectly still. The piercing screams and howls of anguish took on a color of their own and bathed the tablecloth in hues of red, purple, and then black. I had originally wanted the overall mood to be calming and peaceful, with the intention of the LSD enhancing and heightening the existing ambiance. However, the screams of burn victims and tortured souls darkened the room, and I needed to change the vibe quickly.

I correctly assumed the mind of clone who was manning the DJ booth, but had underestimated the amount of focus it took to control his body. With my clumsy hands, I button-mashed the controls for the lights and music. The strobe lights kicked on and the speakers started blasting electronic music with pounding bass.

Unbeknownst to me, “Patient Zero” emerged onto the dance floor. Zero, the eleventh clone who was supposed to be discarded by his clone brethren due to his mental instability and contagious rabid condition.

I was annoyed. I specifically told the clones to discard of Zero since the incubation period for his virus was only a week, and there could be no chance of the virus escaping the confines of his body. But sentient beings often felt compassion, even defying logic at times. Zero had always been the runt of the group, and because of his small stature, he had been adored by the others in their infancy.

I toyed with the idea of replacing the fallen clone infant with Zero, but I just realized that would have been downright irresponsible and borderline dangerous.

I barely recognized him at first, but his tattered rags were unmistakable. He was wearing one of my old hand-me-down “The Nature Company” shirts from the 1990s, although it was stained and soiled to almost near indistinguishability.

He was a mistake, a product of my incapability to multitask. When I was experimenting with the WRN gene, I couldn’t resist modifying other genes in the RecQ family (as an aside, I coined the term “jammin’ on the (DNA) helicase” and once in a while, I secretly smiled to myself at my cleverness), including the BLM gene, whose mutation caused the Bloom-Torre-Machacek syndrome. Individuals with Bloom syndrome typically had short stature and rashes that were induced by the sun. Aside from cosmetic differences, they unfortunately had higher rates of cancer. I wasn’t sure what I was trying to achieve by this gene modification, but by sheer bad luck, Zero was bitten by a rabid squirrel in one of our group outdoor education sessions.

With a crazed look in his eyes, Zero started attacking my guests indiscriminately. He was mute, but the bloodlust in his eyes said it all. The mutated strain of rabies took hold of his victims almost immediately, and as I surveyed my felled guests, I felt a tinge of sadness. Some of these guests hadn’t yet handed over their wedding gifts yet. It would be in poor taste to rummage their bodies for a bloodstained card in a suit pocket, much less take the jewelry off of their mangled fingers.

It was clearly time to go. I relinquished all consciousness and returned all of my focus back into my original body. I took Trish by the hand, headed to the helipad, and started up the helicopter.

Surveying the leaping flames from afar, I could make out figures in the distance running around wildly. I shook my head and launched two heat seeking missiles into the fracas. I thought about my groomsmen for half a second, but it was okay because I didn’t have fun at my bachelor party. They had all shared a nervous glance and hesitated when I ordered two bottles of Dom Pérignon from the waitress at the table, the same nervous glance they shared when I ordered multiple portions of beluga caviar at dinner. Plus, when they ran out of cash, they sent the strippers home instead of Venmo-ing them money from their personal accounts. Shaking with rage from the traumatic memories of my bachelor party, I sent four more missiles into the burning wreckage.

Trish never said a single word the entire flight.

When we landed, she burst into tears. It was exactly how she imagined her wedding as a child.

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